by Archer, Kate
Just now, her father spooned his trifle and said, “I am always skeptical of the three-year-old filly race. A young filly hardly understands herself and one never knows what she’ll decide to do next. I would not lay a large wager over it.”
“I must protest the idea, Mendbridge,” Lord Cabot said. “My own filly’s mind is singular. She likes to gallop as fast as she can in whatever direction she’s pointed in.”
“So she’s led you to believe,” Lord Mendbridge said, “though she might change her mind at an inconvenient moment.”
“I doubt that she will,” Lord Cabot said. He looked across the table at Penny, as if he were on the verge of challenging her in some manner. “Though,” he said, “it is not always a bad thing for a young female to change a mind on some matter.”
Penny bristled, as she always did over the idea that the females of this world, be they person or horse, were supposed to be flighty creatures who reacted without reason and could not settle on an opinion. She particularly bristled that the notion came from Lord Cabot. “I object to the idea that it is only a filly that might change course,” Penny said. “I am certain a colt is equally likely. In fact, colts, in particular, may zig and zag in a most irrational manner.”
“Yes,” Lord Cabot said, “I will concede that point. A colt might be going happily along one way when it suddenly realizes it ought to go another. Of course, the colt can only hope that others see the sense in that change of course. Or realize that the colt meant to go that way all along. And was only delayed.”
“I do not see that a colt thinks so very deeply over its inconsistencies, my lord,” Penny said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lord Cabot said, “colts might think deeper than you would imagine.”
“And a filly would not?” Penny said.
Lord Mendbrige had been looking back and forth at his dinner partners. Finally he called down the table to his sister. “My dear, I think we all grow tired.”
*
Doom was up before the sun. He would get to the stables at four, well in time to let Zephyrus and Bella graze for an hour in the predawn light and be put back into their stalls to rest a suitable time before the races.
He’d trotted down the dark lanes with confidence, he now having been down them so often that he knew every dip and rut. The stables remained dark and Doom smirked to himself that the grooms were a bunch of layabouts.
As he made his way down the line of stalls, sleepy horses peered out at him. Zephyrus softly kicked his stall door before Doom was even in view, the horse having become accustomed to the sound of his footsteps.
He led the horses out to the east field, Bella dutifully following behind her leader wherever he might go. He closed the gate behind them, took himself back into the stables, and found a haybale to lie down on. He would relax for an hour, bring the horses in, and then have the breakfast that Mrs. Payne had thoughtfully packed for him. She’d said she’d made him his favorite—a mound of bacon stuffed between two pieces of toast.
Only a year ago, on a morning like this, he’d have found himself standing in the chill mist of a London street, holding a horse and fighting to stay awake. He’d have been waiting for hours for some drunken sot of a lord to decide he’d had enough of fancy wine and throwing away his money at a hazard table. Bacon between buttered toast would have been, back in those hungry days, the stuff of dreams and imagination.
Life had changed so much that he sometimes could not believe his luck.
Through his lazy mental wanderings, he heard someone make a noise at the other end of the stable. He rolled to his side and recognized the man who would ride Lord Cabot’s horse. Doom had seen him from time to time, he was a slight and grizzled individual named Rupert. He was not surprised to see him now, nor to see him lead out Lord Cabot’s horse. Miss Darlington had said that the lord would likely have the same idea of turning out his horse early. Doom had sometimes wondered if Miss Darlington did not give away too much of her strategies to Lord Cabot, though he supposed all that nonsense had come to an end. As far as he understood it, the only two inmates of the house who did not despise the lord were his valet and Lord Mendbridge himself.
Doom rolled over and shut his eyes.
A hazy orange light peeked in through the slats of the stable walls and Doom sat up, judging the time. It must now be going on half past five and time to bring the horses back in. After that, he would have his breakfast.
He hopped down from the haybale and made his way outside.
The air was crisp with the morning chill that would burn off by race time. Doom turned the corner and the field came into view. He stopped short and squinted his eyes, rubbing them for good measure.
As far as he could make out, that blasted grocer’s assistant stood by Zephyrus and Bella at the far fence. What in blazes was that fella doing there, and at this time of day?
“Hey!” Doom called. “What do you do there?”
The boy’s head snapped up at the sound. He looked in Doom’s direction and then sped off into the trees with a sack in his hand.
Something was not right.
In a flash, all of the niggling ideas about Freddy came to the forefront of Doom’s mind. He’d written them off as only his aggravation at finding the boy so often fawned over by Mrs. Lowell. But now, they came rushing forward to present themselves. How was it that this country grocer, Mr. Cumberbald, had suddenly sent a pineapple when he now understood they were near impossible to get? How was it that the man’s prices were so low as to seem improbable, or so Mrs. Lowell had said. She’d been convinced that Cumberbald only wished to secure his place as Lord Mendbridge’s supplier. Doom had thought that, supplier or not, Freddy came to the house with endless small packages instead of one larger one. Those frequent visits had not seemed necessary.
Then, Freddy had been spotted in the stables only yesterday morning. Why had he been there?
An unknown boy had weaseled his way into the house and now began turning up nearby their horses.
Doom could not work out the whole of the scheme, but he could be certain the boy was up to no good. As it was race day and the boy lingered unaccountably near Zephyrus, that no good must have to do with the betting.
He set off in a run after him.
*
Freddy had been used to following Mr. Farthingale’s directions without fail. If the gentleman said do it this way, then it was done exactly that way. Up until this morning, his master’s directions had always been meticulous. He’d thought, upon laying his head down the night before, they were meticulous once more.
He was to go to the stable just before dawn. He was to take the small vial of laudanum Mr. Farthingale had provided and go to the cabinet that held Lord Cabot’s things. Inside he would find, among the brushes and gear, a chipped and stained teacup. He was to empty the vial into the cup and swirl it around so it was not obvious. When Lord Cabot’s rider took the cup to the grooms’ quarters for tea, as he did every time he came, he would dose himself. It might not have worked on a fella who took better care of his cup or less sugar in his tea, he might have noticed the stain of the liquid or tasted its bitterness. Farthingale assured him he had spied on the groom’s habits thoroughly—the inside of the cup was already stained brown and the man used as much milk and sugar as he could find. He had described the whole set-up as “an affront to tea.”
Once that was done, he would seek out the filly in Lord Cabot’s stall. That part was easy enough, he’d already been there. The stall was one of the first in the line and conveniently labeled as being for Lord Cabot. Feed the horse the contents of the sack and be off. If the horse wouldn’t go for it, mix it with some oats.
Both the horse and the rider would be incapacitated. Farthingale liked his plans to have layers, as if one didn’t go as planned a person could hope the other one would. The horse, though. That was the most important part of it. A rider might be replaced, though unlikely. The horse could not be replaced.
He’d reached the stables
just as the sun rose and the first part of the plan went off without a hitch. The stables had a series of closet-like tack rooms where the boarders could keep their gear and colors. Within the room was a cabinet that locked to keep safe the things deemed of value. Why Rupert would keep his teacup locked up, he didn’t know but it had not slowed him down a minute—he’d been letting himself into locked doors since he was able to walk. He’d poured the laudanum into the cup and swished the thick brown liquid around so the sides were coated. Considering the state of the cup and the years of stain embedded in its porcelain, he very much doubted this new addition would be noticed. Then, he’d locked it up again and made his way to the horse’s stall.
It was empty. The horse was gone. That was when the plan began to unravel.
He’d run outside, having no notion of where the horse could be. Had the lord moved the animal to Mendbridge Cottage?
He’d quickly jumped behind a post in spotting Rupert, Lord Cabot’s rider. The fellow was walking into the stable, though Freddy had not had any notion he’d been on the grounds. It seemed he’d got to the fella’s teacup just in time. But what had the man done with the horse?
Freddy stole along the outside of the stable and made his way to the rear. He turned the corner and two fields with horses grazing came into view, one to the right and one to the left. Two fillies who looked exactly alike grazed in two different fields. Farthingale had not said anything of the possibility that the horse might be out of its stall! Which one was Lord Cabot’s horse? How was he supposed to tell the difference between the two?
Should he wait until they were brought back in? Then, he would know who was who. But it would be too late! There would be too many people about. As it was, he’d been lucky to not have been caught dosing Rupert’s teacup.
He must do something, he could not return having done nothing. There was too much money at stake. But what was he to do?
As he did not have much to go on, he used his deductive skills to reason out what he did know. Lord Cabot was a lord, with prospects rich enough to borrow heavily. The gentleman would be a duke someday. It stood to reason that a man of that stature would have more than one horse at the races. So, it must be the filly who was out grazing with the stallion.
It seemed likely enough. He must just pray he’d guessed right.
He wondered, as he made his way over the bumpy tufts of grass toward the fence, if he could actually get the horse to eat anything. It was one thing to have a horse in a stall, and another to attempt to lure one to a fence. And, he hadn’t been thinking clearly enough to bring oats in a bucket.
Still, the time was getting late. He must try what he could.
Fortunately, these two horses did not seem to be the wary type. They had looked at him curiously. He distinctly saw the stallion stare at the bag in his hand. That horse began to walk over to him, probably imagining he’d brought apples. The filly dutifully followed him.
It was not the ideal situation. He’d probably have to feed some of the berries to the stallion too, as he was unlikely to allow one of his herd to eat ahead of him.
When the horses reached the fence, he’d opened the bag and taken out a handful of the berries. Mr. Farthingale had dusted them with sugar to lure the horse in.
The stallion pushed the filly out of the way and bent his head to smell his hand. He shook his mane, turned, and walked away. The filly approached, seeming in a hurry lest she get pushed aside again, and took some of the berries from his hand.
What luck! The stallion was not interested and the filly was. Certainly, the morning was finally turning his way. He must only get her to take a few more handfuls and he would be off.
As he reached into his sack a second time, he heard a voice break the quiet of the morning. His head snapped up.
It was Doom, one of Mendbridge’s grooms. And the fellow was running toward him.
He could not be caught.
Chapter Eleven
Henry had been up with the sun. He’d gone along, this past week, in all confidence about the race. Other things had distracted him, particularly Miss Darlington, but he’d not worried over his prospects at the races.
Now, though, the day had arrived. Somehow, it being so close to coming off had filled him with trepidation. What if something should happen? What if the unthinkable should occur and he lost? He was in debt to Mr. Farthingale for three hundred guineas and in a fit of confidence the day before, he’d laid some heavy private bets. Should he lose, he would be out near two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds that he did not in fact have.
Good God, would he be like Mackery, sinking slowly deeper into debt until there was nowhere to turn?
No, of course that would not happen. His father would hardly permit his eldest son to fly to the continent with creditors on his heels. Dukes’ Pact or not, his father would come through if absolutely necessary. One would hope.
On the other hand, the old man could get exceedingly testy when his gout flared up. Nobody would soon forget the day on the estate when he’d fired all the servants because somebody had watered down his port. It had been fortunate that Henry’s mother had been the one to water it down and had rehired the servants before an hour had gone by.
My God, if his father was particularly irritable, he might attempt to use a large debt as leverage—marry, and your debts will be paid. Otherwise, you can return from Spain or Belgium or wherever you’ve taken yourself off to when I am dead and you inherit. Henry’s mother would not be likely to interfere on that sort of directive, she was in wholehearted agreement with the Dukes’ Pact. As for his grandmother…she’d probably buy him his ticket abroad.
He’d have to go. He could not linger in England with gentlemen’s bets gone unpaid. He had no hope of paying any of those debts with a dowry. If he had thought he was against marriage before, now he knew it to be impossible. He would never marry. The only woman in the world for him was Miss Darlington, and she would marry Burke.
“That’s it, then,” he said softly. “If it all goes wrong, perhaps Mackery’s contessa will find room for one more ne’er-do-well in her villa.”
“I’m sorry, my lord?”
Henry realized Jarvis would think he’d lost his mind. He must not allow his thoughts to drift to Miss Darlington! There was too much at stake, he must be focused on the business at hand. Though, if he were to examine it closely, there was not much business for him to actually accomplish other than turning up and watching his fate unfold with the race.
“Should you like to be off to the stables at once, my lord?” Jarvis asked, polishing a smudged boot buckle with the cloth he always seemed to have on his person.
“I should like to, but we both know Rupert would be incensed,” he said. His groom was skilled and had no need of his interference. In truth, he’d always been rather bold in sharing his opinions, and his opinion on a race day was: “Don’t bother me or the horse. Nobody in fine clothes need be in the stables.”
“Ah, yes, Rupert,” Jarvis said, as if he’d just bit a lemon.
“You see how it is, then,” Henry said.
“As clear as glass.”
Once, Henry had ignored Rupert’s precept of staying out of the way while they were at Epsom Downs. He’d been paid for his trouble with a slew of insults, most of which he did not care to recall as they referred to his manhood and his person.
Another groom would have been dismissed on the spot for such effrontery, but what could one do with Rupert? He’d known Henry since he was a boy and had knocked him on the head more than once in those early years. Further, he was too valuable to dismiss. As it was, the fellow’s salary was always being raised because some lord sought to poach him with a more attractive offer. If one thought of buying horseflesh, did not one always call upon Rupert to gain his opinion?
Henry had bought Bucephalus on the groom’s recommendation. Rupert had eyed the horse and watched her move, he’d examined her teeth, and felt along her ribs, and laid his ear against her chest. Then, he�
��d done what only Rupert could do, he’d had a long talk with the horse. He’d pronounced the current owner a great booby of a man and the horse herself a jewel.
No, as much as he’d like to gallop down to the stables and supervise all the preparations, he would keep himself well away from Rupert’s wrath.
“I suppose Miss Darlington will go down early,” Henry said, “as she does not have her own Rupert to keep her away.”
“The lady’s rider is too young to have yet reached the storied heights of incivility Rupert currently occupies,” Jarvis said drily, “though he seems to aspire to it. The young ruffian’s name is Doom.”
“Doom?”
“Apparently his mother and father looked upon the infant with something less than sanguine feelings and named him thus. He has the effrontery to glare at me whenever we chance upon one another.”
“I suppose you cannot blame him for glaring, I suspect he only follows others’ leads. Do they all continue cool below stairs?”
“Oh yes,” Jarvis said, his hand visibly tightening on Henry’s boot. “One would think I am the devil himself. I have been served so many ends of meat that I believe they may be buying them specially for me.”
“Confounded people,” Henry muttered, “I suppose they will all love Burke. Burke will be celebrated, as will his valet.”
“Lord Burke?” Jarvis asked quizzically.
Henry bit his lip. He must stop thinking about Miss Darlington, and Burke and, well, the whole mess. It was race day. He must turn his full attention to that.
Though, he noticed his thoughts were not to be so easily directed. They would keep drifting back. As he was naturally a rather hopeful individual, they kept drifting further in the direction of ideas that might solve the whole problem.
What if Miss Darlington had not firmly made up her mind? Or what if she had, but her mind could be changed? After all, nothing had been announced yet.
